by David Weber
* * *
Gahvyn Mahrtyn, Baron White Ford, stood like a statue atop King Gorjah II's aftercastle. Captain Kaillee stood beside him, and both of them stared up to the north. The Tarotisian galleys had been leading the combined fleet, and King Gorjah II was near the head of the entire formation. White Ford was too far south to see clearly what was happening, but his lookouts left him in little doubt of the totality of the disaster.
"How did they do it, My Lord?" Kaillee muttered beside him, and the baron shrugged.
"I have no idea, Zhilbert," he admitted candidly. "But how they did it doesn't really matter at the moment, does it?"
"No, My Lord," Kaillee agreed grimly, and turned to look at his admiral.
White Ford continued gazing northward. The wind carried the intermittent rumble of the heavy cannonade to him, and the sound was growing both steadier and louder as it drew closer. His lookouts had reported "many" galleons, but he was quite certain they hadn't seen all of them yet. If Haarahld of Charis had run the insane risk of sending any of his galleons this far from Rock Shoal Bay, he would have sent all of them. And just from the weight of fire White Ford could hear, they had to be steadily reducing the Dohlaran ships astern of him to wreckage.
He looked up at the sky. The sun had moved well to the west of noon, and the clouds which had hovered on the eastern horizon earlier in the day were sweeping steadily—and rapidly—closer. Indeed, their outriders were already overhead. More rain, he thought. Soon. And judging by how quickly it was coming on, the wind was going to increase still further, as well.
He turned and looked to the west. Crag Hook, the finger of rocky cliffs reaching out to the southwest to shelter Crag Reach, was broad on his starboard beam, and he felt a deep, burning temptation to alter course. If he passed between Crag Hook and Opal Island into the sheltered waters of the reach, his ships would be protected from the weather rolling in from the west. And in those sheltered waters, they'd be able to maneuver under oars, able—in theory, at least—to give a better account of themselves against the vengefully pursuing galleons.
But . . .
"We'll hold our course," he said, responding to Kaillee's unasked question. "And we'll shake out a reef, as well."
Protest hovered behind the flag captain's eyes, and White Ford's bark of laughter was harsh.
"It's tempting," he admitted, waving his right arm at the passage into Crag Reach. "It's very tempting, and I know I'm risking the ship by increasing sail in this wind. But if we take shelter in the reach, they'll either come straight in after us or else hover off Opal Island to keep us penned up like sheep until they're ready to attack. And when they do, those guns of theirs will chop us up for kraken bait."
Kaillee looked rebellious, and White Ford shook his head.
"I know what you're thinking, Zhilbert, but listen to that." The wind brought the thunder of cannon to them more clearly, and the baron grimaced. "They don't just have more guns; they're firing them much more rapidly, as well. It's the only explanation for how they can be producing that much fire. And"—he smiled grimly—"it also explains why they were putting so many guns aboard galleons in the first place, doesn't it?"
"Yes, My Lord. I suppose it does."
Kaillee's look of rebellion faded, but one of deep concern remained, and White Ford understood perfectly. They were still almost two hundred and fifty miles north of Cape Ruin, and there was no protected anchorage between Crag Reach and Demon Bay.
"I imagine we're going to lose some more galleys, if the wind makes up the way it looks like it's going to," the baron said unflinchingly. "But bad weather will make it harder for them to run any more of us down, and we'll have a better chance against the sea than we will against that."
He jerked his head back to the north, and finally, slowly, his flag captain nodded not just in acceptance, but in agreement.
"Yes, My Lord," he said.
"Good, Zhilbert." White Ford laid one hand lightly on Kaillee's shoulder, then inhaled deeply. "And make a signal to all ships in company to make more sail, as well."
IV
HMS Dreadnought,
Off Armageddon Reef
"Secure the guns, Captain," Crown Prince Cayleb said.
"Aye, aye, Sir," Captain Manthyr replied. "Master Sahdlyr, secure the guns."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Bynzhamyn Sahdlyr was Dreadnought's second lieutenant, but he was acting as first. Lieutenant Gyrard was among the ship's nineteen wounded.
All along the ship, bone-weary seamen ran the guns in one last time, cautious with their two-ton charges on the pitching deck. Handspikes under the cascabels heaved up, depressing the guns' muzzles until the loaded round shot rolled out onto the deck, pushing the wads before them. Then hook-headed staffs were used to extract the powder cartridges before the guns were wormed to scrub away the worst of the built-up powder fouling and vent holes were thoroughly cleaned. Gun captains inspected the pieces carefully, then tampions and vent aprons were replaced and they were hauled back up to the closed gunports and secured for sea.
While the guns crews worked, Cayleb strode to the taffrail and looked astern. Destroyer still forged along in Dreadnought's wake. She'd fallen farther astern—at six hundred yards, the interval between them had grown to twice what it had been at the start of the action—but she was making up the lost ground steadily.
It was hard to make out very much beyond her. The setting sun was invisible beyond the thick cloud cover, foam was beginning to blow in streaks, and what had begun as gusting showers of rain was turning into a steady downpour. The sails of Destroyer's next astern were dimly visible through the rain and spray, but the ship herself was impossible for Cayleb to identify, and he couldn't see the other ships of his column at all.
The crown prince turned his head as Merlin stepped up beside him. Lieutenant Falkhan stood between them and the rest of the quarterdeck, affording them privacy and serving as a discreet suggestion to others that they should do the same.
"Are they all still back there?" Cayleb asked. He had to raise his voice to a near shout to carry through the tumult of rain, wind, creaking timbers, and waves.
"Not quite." Merlin raised his own voice as he gazed out into the darkening rain. But his eyes were unfocused as he studied not Destroyer, but the overhead imagery Owl was feeding him from his SNARC. "The column's not as neat as it was. Dagger and Dreadful are sailing almost abreast, and most of the ships have changed their relative positions. All of them left the line at some point to deal with a cripple or someone trying to run, and Damsel and Torrent never managed to rejoin—they're making for Samuel Island—but we didn't lose any of them. The other twelve all got back into formation somehow, and they're still back there."
"I can hardly believe it," Cayleb confessed. He turned to look forward along Dreadnought's decks. "I mean, I knew the new guns were going to give us a tremendous advantage, but still . . ."
His voice trailed off. Merlin nodded, but his expression was shadowed with more than rain and spray.
"We may not have actually lost a ship, but didn't get off scot-free," he pointed out, and it was Cayleb's turn to nod grimly.
Dreadnought herself had taken sixteen hits, nine of them from guns at least as heavy as her own. She'd been holed below the waterline twice, but the carpenter and his assistants had hammered wooden shot plugs into the holes to stop the leaks. One of her foredeck carronades had been dismounted, and most of its crew had been killed by the same hit. Another round shot had taken a bite out of her mainmast. That, fortunately, had been a glancing hit, and before he'd been wounded, Lieutenant Gyrard had "fished" the wounded portion of the mast by lashing spars into place to stiffen it, like a splint on a broken arm.
The port anchor had been shot away, as well, and there were dozens of new splices in the running rigging, not to mention holes in almost every one of her sails. But despite all that, and despite her seventeen dead and nineteen wounded, the majority cut down by flying splinters, she was in incredibly good shape.
Other galleons, Merlin knew, had been less fortunate. HMS Typhoon, from the original Experimental Squadron, in Admiral Staynair's column, had found herself running along between two particularly ably handled Tarotisian galleys. She'd hammered both of them into wrecks, but a lucky hit from their own artillery had cut her mainmast no more than a dozen feet above the deck. Worse, the collapsing mast had fallen across the Tarotisian to leeward, and the surviving members of the galleon's crew had stormed across the tangle of fallen spars in a desperate boarding attempt.
It had failed, amid horrendous casualties, inflicted in no small part by the flintlock muskets and bayonets of Typhoon's eighty Marines. But it had inflicted even more losses on Typhoon's company, as well. The galleon's total casualties amounted to over two hundred, better than half her total ship's company, and she'd lost contact with the rest of Staynair's column. But Captain Stywyrt was still on his feet, despite having suffered a minor wound of his own during the boarding attempt, and he had the situation under control. Despite the damage to her masts and rigging, she was still seaworthy, and he was conning her carefully through the rain and steadily rising wind towards the prearranged rendezvous off Samuel Island where the two supply ships awaited the rest of the fleet.
Very few of Cayleb's ships were undamaged, but none of the others had been as badly hurt as Typhoon. In fact, Dreadnought's damages were worse than most, probably because she'd been at the head of her column.
"What can you tell me about Domynyk and the other side?" Cayleb asked, leaning closer, until their heads were only inches apart.
He still had to raise his voice to be heard through the noise of wind and sea, but not even Ahrnahld Falkhan could have overheard him, and this time Merlin turned his head to look at him levelly. He raised one eyebrow, and Cayleb showed his teeth in a tight grin.
"It's a bit late for either of us to be pretending you need to withdraw to your quarters and meditate, Merlin," he said, eyes flickering with humor.
"All right," Merlin agreed, then stroked one of his mustachios thoughtfully for a moment.
"Traveler and Summer Moon are waiting at the rendezvous with Intrepid," he said, beginning with the supply ships and their escorting schooner. "All the other schooners are still in good shape, but they're worrying more about the weather than anything else right now. I imagine most of them will make for Samuel Island, too, as soon as they can.
"Domynyk's column is pretty much intact. Typhoon, Thunderbolt, and Maelstrom have all gotten separated from his formation—they're proceeding independently to Samuel Island, like Damsel and Torrent—but the others are still in company with him. Domynyk himself is still in action with the trailers from White Ford's formation, but I think at least ten or twelve of the Tarotisians are going to evade him in this stuff," he waved an arm at the weather. "White Ford's leading them, and he's driving them awfully hard for these conditions. He's also well past Cape Ruin. I think he's making for Dexter Point at the moment, but whether he's thinking in terms of Demon Reach or continuing to run I couldn't say.
"There're another five or six galleys to the east," he continued, gesturing at the almost pitch-dark eastern horizon, and his expression was grim. "Two of them are pretty badly damaged; I don't think they'll survive the night. The others may, but two of them are Dohlarans, and they're already in trouble."
He paused for a moment, staring off into the darkness where the men crewing those galleys fought for their lives against the hunger of the sea beyond even the sight of his eyes, then looked back at Cayleb.
"Earl Thirsk's in command of what's left," he said. "He's got about sixty galleys and all the remaining store ships, and he's rounding Crag Hook right this minute. He'll be safely anchored in Crag Reach within another two or three hours."
"I see."
Cayleb frowned, staring at nothing while he considered what Merlin had told him. He stayed that way for several seconds, then looked back at Merlin.
"What's our own current position?" he asked.
"So, now I'm your navigator, as well, am I?" Merlin retorted with a smile.
"When a wizard—or a seijin—appears to offer you his services, you might as well take full advantage of them," Cayleb replied with another of those tight grins.
"Well, for your information, we're about thirty-three miles south-southeast of the northern tip of Opal Island."
"And is Thirsk anchoring behind Crag Hook or in the lee of Opal?"
"Behind Crag Hook," Merlin replied.
Cayleb nodded again, obviously thinking hard, then grimaced.
"I can't remember the chart well enough," he admitted. "Could we make the passage between Opal and Crag Hook from here in a single tack?"
It was Merlin's turn to frown as he studied the satellite imagery relayed to him from the overhead SNARC.
"I don't think so," he said after a moment, speaking just a bit more slowly. "The wind's veered too far round."
"I was afraid of that. Still, it may be for the best. The men can use the rest."
Merlin turned to face the prince squarely.
"Cayleb, you aren't thinking about going into Crag Reach after them tonight, are you?"
"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Cayleb said, and Merlin's frown deepened.
"Cayleb, you've got only thirteen ships—assuming none of the others lose contact on the way, and you're talking about threading a needle in the dark! The passage between Opal and Crag Hook is barely twenty-two miles wide; it's raining hard; night's falling; the wind's still rising; we've got sixteen-foot seas; and every depth your charts show is eight hundred years out of date!"
"Agreed," Cayleb said calmly. "On the other hand, according to the charts, the main channel's over nine miles wide and almost sixty feet deep until you're past the northern tip of the island. Things may have changed since Hastings created the original charts, but there should be enough margin to let us in."
"In the middle of a rainy night?" Merlin demanded. "Without waiting for Domynyk or any of the stragglers?"
"We'll lose at least a couple of days making rendezvous with Domynyk and then getting back into position," Cayleb pointed out.
"Which doesn't change the fact that it's going to be darker than the inside of a barrel by the time we can get there. Your lookouts won't even be able to see Crescent Island, much less avoid running into it!"
"Ah, but I have the aid of a wizard, don't I, Seijin Merlin?" Cayleb replied softly. "You can see Crescent Island, and probably Opal Island and Crag Hook, all at the same time. So Dreadnought will take the lead, and the others will follow in our wake."
"But why run the risk of having one of them go astray?" Merlin argued. "If one of our galleons goes ashore in weather like this, we'll probably lose her entire company, and Thirsk isn't going anywhere. Certainly not before daylight!"
"No, he isn't," Cayleb agreed. "But I'll tell you what he is going to be doing." Merlin raised both eyebrows, and Cayleb shrugged. "He's going to be putting springs on his anchor cables. He's going to be ferrying as many of his heavy guns as he can ashore and setting them up as shore batteries. He's going to be thinking about what we did to him, and thinking about the fact that Crag Reach is a lot better suited to his galleys than the open sea was. And he's going to be doing everything he can to offset his men's panic and shock. He's going to use every single day—every hour—we give him to make arrangements to kill as many of my men as he can when we finally attack."
"But—" Merlin began, and Cayleb shook his head.
"I know that if we wait for Domynyk, we can still destroy every ship Thirsk has, whatever he does in the meantime. But if we give him the time to prepare, we're going to lose ships of our own. Nowhere near as many as he will, I'm sure, but we'll be forced to come to him on far less favorable terms, and there's no way he'll give in without a fight—probably a nasty one, at such close quarters.
"On the other hand, if we go in tonight, while his men are still exhausted and terrified, while he himself is probably still trying to grapple with
what we've already done to him, the momentum will all be on our side. His men will feel trapped and helpless, and men who feel that way are a lot more likely to simply surrender instead of fighting to the bitter end."
Merlin had started to open his mouth in fresh protest, but now he closed it. He still thought Cayleb's scheme was risky, but he had to admit the prince appeared to have adjusted quite nicely to the notion that the more-than-human abilities of his seijin—or wizard—were there to be used. And given Merlin's own capabilities, the notion of entering Crag Reach in the middle of a near gale, wasn't quite as insane as it had appeared at first glance.
Yet that wasn't what chopped off his protest. No, what did that was the realization Cayleb was right.
It wasn't really something which would have occurred to Nimue Alban, for there'd been no surrenders in the war she'd fought. There'd been only victors and the dead, and the very concept of quarter had been meaningless. Merlin had allowed for the effects of demoralization and panic on the combat capability of the enemy, but he hadn't gone the one step further and remembered that honorable surrender was a deeply enshrined part of Safeholdian warfare.